


Fever Dream

by lukegray (spacebarista)



Category: The Following
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Trust, M/M, Post!Hostile Witness, Vague Description of Wound Care, Vague Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebarista/pseuds/lukegray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Injured and alone, Mark takes care of himself. But it doesn't feel that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I had been trying to stay away from writing Mark without Luke, because it hurt. But I was talking this idea over with a friend or two, especially after Hostile Witness, and I had to write something. So excited to see Mark again tomorrow! Maybe this is how his recovery started...

 

The adrenaline wears off faster than he would have liked. He’s barely in the motel room before his legs wobble and the wound in his thigh throbs. But he has to stay awake. He has to tend to the wound, make sure it won’t get infected.

 

_“Getting shot is no joke.”_

 

He snorts, banishing the memories of his last conversation with Daisy. The irony isn’t lost on him. He tosses the medical supplies, food, and water he’d stolen on the bed. He won’t be moving much for the next few days. He sheds most of his clothes; they’re crusted with salt and still damp. And he has to get to his leg.

 

Mark’s had plenty of medical training. Lily insisted on it, and Mark had done extensive reading on his own. It’s important knowledge to have. Especially when there’s no one else to help. He ignores the pang that thought sends through his chest. He’s got more important things to worry about. Tending to his own gunshot wound would be very, very difficult.

 

He scarfs down a protein bar, getting something in his stomach before swallowing a few painkillers. He won’t deal with getting sick. He arranges mirrors to see what he’s doing, and carefully kneels on the bed with a soft hiss. The bloodied, slightly jagged hole stands out against his pale skin. He tears open a pack of sterile tools. He’s already at risk for infection after his quick dip in the East River. But he’d rather get the bullet out _before_ dousing the area with alcohol. 

 

It doesn’t take nearly as long as Mark expects it to, and still longer than he’d like. The painkillers keep him from blacking out but doesn’t fully block the pain cause by digging into his leg for a bullet. He struggles to keep quiet through the whole thing, burying his face in a pillow. It’s a relief to toss the damn thing somewhere near the door. Next comes the hard part. 

 

Mark shifts, holding his shaking leg off the bed. His hand also trembles as he grabs a bottle of alcohol. He pours some of the sharp-smelling liquid over the wound. This time he gets close to passing out. A strangled cry does escape him, and he freezes for as long as he can stand, hoping no one comes to investigate. He gently wipes at the wound to make sure it’s as clean as he can get it and very carefully closes it up with quick stitches. His eyelids droop as he tapes gauze to his thigh, as he wraps a bandage around it. He tosses all the clean items back in his bag and leaves the rest on the table.

 

Seconds later, he collapses into bed. 

 

Exhaustion conquers Mark’s mind and body. The painkillers do nothing to combat it. A weak moan escapes him as dull pain demands his attention, in his legs first, then his whole body. He whimpers, waiting for sleep to escape everything he’s feeling—the physical pain and the _loneliness_.

 

Without his wound holding his full attention, his thoughts sink in. Everyone he had left in this world betrayed him. _Used_ him. Andrew, one of Lily’s boyfriends, one of the only father figures he’d trusted, lied to him and used that trust. Kyle lied and used him as well, though that was less of a surprise. And Daisy? She _completely_ played him. Calling him “sweetie” and being kind to him. _Pretending_ she cared. It was all a ploy and he knows it now. That hurts the most. He thinks he was starting to feel something for her.

 

_“You always like the wrong girls, little bro.”_

 

Mark perks ever so slightly. He’d not heard Luke’s voice since the shipyard. As he encouraged him before it all went to hell.

 

“Luke,” Mark sobs softly, the effort hurting his chest.

 

_“Shhh,”_ Luke soothes. _“It’s okay. I’m here. Go to sleep.”_

 

He _swears_ he feels a hand card through his hair as he finally succumbs to the exhaustion. He’s asleep before he knows it.

 

 

 

 

Mark wakes to the smell of hot food and a voice complaining to itself. He fights the desire to fall back to sleep, contentrating on the voice.

 

“—I mean, who _doesn’t_ have turmeric? A good kitchen isn’t fully stocked without it! Ugh, The chicken will _suffer_ …”

 

Mark’s eyes snap open. He leans up with a groan, his body screaming in protest. He doesn’t care; he has to see for himself. He’s back in the brownstone, curled up on the couch. It’s sunny and bright. Warm. And puttering over the stove…

 

Luke doesn’t even look at him. “Don’t you _dare_ get up, little bro. I’m not going to let dinner burn so I can come over and force you back down.”

 

Mark can’t help but laugh, sending more pain shooting through his chest. He holds back happy tears as he takes his brother in. Luke’s completely at home in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and away to keep them clean. His own dark blond hair is swept back from his face, as always. He’s relaxed, humming even, and Mark feels himself smiling before he realizes he is. 

 

“I don’t… just… _how_?”

 

“‘How’ what?”

 

“How did we get back here? How are you—”

 

Luke tsks, turning to plate whatever chicken dish he has planned. He raises an eyebrow at Mark, and the younger twin’s heart skips a beat. 

 

“Doesn’t matter. You’re safe. I’m with you. And I’m going to take care of you. Make it better.”

 

He looks back at his work, plating some vegetables, some rice. Mark can’t tell what from his angle. Luke’s answer triggers something in the back of his mind, but he can’t place what. It doesn’t matter. Luke is here. Everything will be fine now. Luke’s never let him down, or lied to him. _He’s here_.

 

“Thank you, Luke.”

 

Luke grabs the finished plate and saunters out to him, a fork in his other hand. He kneels down beside Mark, a smile growing on his face. It warms Mark’s heart. 

 

“You just thank me by relaxing. Getting better.” He gathers food on the fork—a mix of chicken and vegetables—and holds it out to Mark’s mouth. “Alright, open up.”

 

The younger twin rolls his eyes. “Luke, I can feed myself.”

 

“Just humor me, Mark.” Something in his tone pushes Mark to comply. He chews slowly, savoring the taste of Luke’s cooking. He’s missed it. But why? Luke’s always been here. Hasn’t he? He blinks as Luke continues. “I’m going to repay you for last year. 

 

It’s Mark’s turn to raise an eyebrow. He lets his brother feed him another bite. “Last year?”

 

“Yeah.” Another forkful. Mark doesn’t argue. “When you took care of me. After you and Mom got me back. Remember?”

 

He waits until Luke feeds him yet again before answering. “Oh, yeah.” Last year. When mother died. When Luke…

 

Mark freezes. Something’s not right. But what is it? He wobbles, drowsiness rising up inside him. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Luke doesn’t seem bothered, watching him with an almost pleased look on his face. 

 

Mark blinks at him. “Luke…”

 

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Yeah, I know. Not very polite of me to sedate you. But you won’t rest. And you _need_ it.” He starts to stand.

 

“Luke,” Mark pleads, his voice weakening. “ _Please_ … don’t go.”

 

“Hey…” Luke kneels back down, his expression growing serious. He rests a hand on Mark’s jaw, blue eyes meeting his. “I _told_ you. I’m here. I’m not going _anywhere_. But you need your _rest_.”

 

He stands, turning back to the kitchen. Mark reaches for him, so close to Luke’s elbow, but his hand passes right through him. He chokes back a sob. Red stains grow on Luke’s back. He turns to glance at Mark once more. His forehead is bloody, his reassuring smile almost macabre. 

 

 “I’ll get some turmeric. make this dish _perfect_ for when you wake up.” He winks. “ I’ll be here. Promise. I’ve _always_ kept my promises, haven’t I, little bro?”

 

Mark tries to fight the looming darkness, reaching for his grinning brother with all he has. But his world goes black as reality sets back in.

 

That’s what felt wrong.

 

Luke is dead.

 

And he won’t be here when Mark wakes up.

 

 

 

 

Mark jolts upright in the motel bed, pain lancing through his body at the movement. He sobs—loud and violent—and buries his faces in his hands to stifle the sounds. He gasps for air, hyperventilating as tears flow down his cheeks. With every choked breath, more pain blooms in his chest. He doesn’t care. It can’t hurt worse than knowing he’ll never see his brother again.

 

His heart aches when he thinks of Luke’s necklace, as well as the only picture he’d had left of him, in FBI possession. Damn Kyle and Daisy and whatever they had done to lead them to his door. If only he’d had more _time_ … He resolves to find a way to print a new photo. It won’t be as good, pulled from the internet. but it’s something. he can look at it. Pretend Luke could keep his promise. Pretend Luke is here. Or just look at him and remember.

 

It takes him much longer than he’d like to calm his breathing, to end the flow of tears. His lungs feel raw and ache as much as the rest of his body. He sits in the silence, cool air caressing his tear tracks and soothing some of his pain.

 

Not the one he wishes would stop.

 

Finally, he takes more pain meds, drinks more water, and lies back down. He lies awake long enough to feel the meds kick in, staring at the ceiling, picturing Luke on the bumpy white surface. 

 

One day he’ll be with his twin again. But not yet. There’s work to be done. So for now, he’ll listen. He’ll heal. 

 

“Goodnight, Luke,” he whispers, afraid to disturb the silence any more. And as he drifts to sleep, he lets himself hear Luke’s voice once more.

 

_“Night, little bro.”_

 


End file.
